| Wir haben im Internet eine herrlich schaurige, wenn sicherlich auch frei erfundene, Geschichte gefunden:
Zwei "Poolsharks" (Leute, die mit einem Skateboard an einem Swimming Pool Rand fahren) haben illegalerweise
unseren wunderbaren Swimming Pool besucht und dort mit dem bösen Lobo-Geist Bekanntschaft gemacht.
Quelle: http://groups.msn.com/texaspoolsharks/thecretinsession.msnw
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The wide open road; the wind lashing at your face; your blazing down the endless highway with your foot
planted firmly to the floorboard. A scenario etched into the American psyche by Beat Poets, travel magazines,
and popular music. So many of us have bought into it. I was once victim to the romantic allure of traveling
to unknown places myself. No more. Now, older and wiser, I know its safest to stay at home in my dark bedroom
with the blinds cinched tight and the lights dimmed. See, a little over a year ago I planned a camping trip
for myself and a friend. Actually, The Ultimate Camping Trip, to a little town in west Texas once known as
Lobo. "The Ghost Town With A Pool", I read on the Ghost Towns Of Texas website, "The tumbleweeds kept clogging
the filter", it tantalized. Perfect, I thought. Accessable only by 4x4, deserted, and an empty swimming pool
all to ourselves... what more could a Jeep driving, poolskating Hobo ask for?
After about 8 hours of driving west on Interstate 20, which eventually became Interstate 10, we reached our
exit. An old dirt road that headed south for as far as we could see. John radioed to me that he was going to
drive on to Van Horn to fill his Bronco up with gasoline and add some air to his spare tire. "Alright, I'm
going to head on to Lobo so I can get my tent pitched and throw the pump in the pool if it needs it", I told
him over a static riddled CB. I veered the Jeep left onto the rocky old road and quickly blinded any vision
in my rearview mirror with a huge cloud of desert dust. Thrusting from side to side with each pothole and
advancing, with white knuckles, at an ever slower pace I began to feel truely alone... and I liked it. I
eventually had to ease to a stop to more securely fasten the big gas powered pool pump that had been
threatening to capsize in the bed of my Jeep from the ruggedness of the trail. I took a slug of warm water
and splashed some across my face, wiping my mouth clean. I then applied a healthy dose of Carmex to my
scaley lips and began to pull out the shovels and brooms in order to get at the pump when a terrifying scream
curdled from behind me, raising the hair on my neck. It sounded like Satan himself and it had me frantically
reeling around to face the tortured being that was, surely, standing behind me with a raised hatchett. I
turned to find that it was indeed The Devil...a Texas sized Dust Devil, dancing like a drunk Go-Go Girl
a few hundred yards off the trail. "Ha, scared by a pretty little thing like you", I remarked uneasily to
the decipitating twister.
I watched until it was completely gone, but was still haunted by the human-like scream it produced. I
finished batoning down the big gas pump, threw the dusty brooms back in the Jeep, and crawled slowly further
south to Lobo.
Lobo, Texas was no Scooby-Doo style Ghost Town. Old telephone posts lurched above the remains of rotted
wood shacks and modest sized buildings. Cactus and their shadows loomed across unpaved streets. Most of the
remaining phone lines hang low enough to reach by hand and tumbleweed was held captive in almost every corner
of every building. I had no specific directions to the old inground pool but quickly realized that finding
it in this tiny area would not be a chore. I was not disaapointed to find that the pool was completely clean,
aside from a little dust swirling around the light blue floor of the deep end. "Must have been expecting us",
I said to myself, now trying to ease the feeling of being completely alone in the middle of nowhere. As soon
as my tent was up I took a closer look at this old pool. A sort of right hand kidney shape with a deathbox
nestled on the right side of the deepend. The trannies looked big, if a little bumpy, and the shallow was
flawless. I pulled two dull metal ladders out from the pool and wasted no time at getting a few runs in
before the sun went below the horizon. Sweat was covering me like a second skin by my third run and I was
gasping in lungfulls of dirty air and enjoying every moment. This pool was like a dream, a true desert
oasis... no mere mirage. The deathbox was barely an obsticle as I slashed and carved and grinded every nook
and cranny of this Depression era moster. I'd never skated a pool so well and was getting dizzy from the
excitment, or from the heat. As I went backside with both axles over the deathbox again it happened... I
never saw who did it. Never saw a thing, but I felt it. Something smashed violently into the back of my
head. I saw a flash of light and watched as the bottom of the deep end came hurtling at me. Blackness.
The distant sounds of a pool session began to reel me from a dreary abyss. Each squeel from urythane
sliding on plaster, each chatter from trucks ripping across brick coping brought me closer to fully
opening my eyes...of course, I wish I never had. Because what I saw has barely allowed me a moments sleep
for over a year. I lay flat on my back at the bottom of the, now, pitch black deep end as a hideous red
haired ghoul on a delapitated old skateboard blazed circles around the same pool I had been skating. He
skated so fast that I was barely able to discern any details of his appearance at first. With every line
through the deep end he whisked so close to my throbbing head that I could feel my hair ruffle as he
passed. His green skin was stretched tight against his sinuey arms and legs. Unable to lift my head
from the surface I merely watched as this cretin came ever closer and closer to my head... laughing with
that same unnerving scream I had heard earlier that day. A human scream... but not entirely human. I felt
like the fool from the Circus audience who has volunteered to be buckled onto the spinning wheel for the
blindfolded Knife-Throwers amusement.
I could feel his bulging eyes glaring at me every time he passed. Finally, I gathered what strength I
had and warm blood trickled into my ear as I tryed to rescue myself from this nightmare. I eventually
dragged my heavy body up towards the shallow end stairs and used all my effort to climb them. The cretin
carved and grinded over the stairs three or four times as I struggled up them, laughing all the while.
Just as I thought I had made it out I heard his endless run turn quiet... eerily quiet. A quick scuffling
of sneakers and I felt him grab my ankles, a grip like a steel vice held my struggling legs firmly and he
easily dragged me back to the deep end. He made certain that my face was in the exact place as my head
was before my escape attempt. I knew he had that one flyaway board reserved for my skull still. I had no
strength left to fight with as he slowly walked up to the shallow end emitting a sick hideous giggle. I
knew I was through. He turned and dropped his skateboard to the ground catching it with his foot, he
grinned at me and hunched forward about to push off for the deep end when, just then, for a brief moment,
lights flashed across his bloodshot eyes and I heard the rumble of Johns 302... Blackness, again...
John claimed that he had stopped to watch some strange lights in the Marfa direction but that he never
saw anything odd when he pulled up to the camp. He said he simply found me unconsious on the floor of the
deepend, blood on my head and... on the nose of my board. "You knocked yourself out , Dummy", he insisted.
I knew better. I spent a sleepless, cold night shivering in my tent, the events of my ordeal replaying
like a movie before my delarious eyes. As soon as the sun came up I hastily packed up most of my gear and
left. I cautioned John to get the hell out of there but he chose to stay and skate. To this day he doesn't
talk about that camping trip?
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